


really, really pretty

by QuickCharade



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-07-15 00:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16051688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickCharade/pseuds/QuickCharade
Summary: Reader had a rough night that involved drinking and calling her best friend, Rich, 'really, really pretty,' which he plans to relentlessly tease her about. Reader also has the biggest crush possible on her best friend, and what she doesn't know is that the feeling is totally mutual (and has been for a while).





	1. it's going with you to your grave, sister.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamgxbriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamgxbriel/gifts).



You stumble out of bed, hair an absolute wreck and headache from the deepest pits of hell.

            Hangovers. They’re fun.

            You hold onto the walls in the hallway as you make your way to the kitchen, desperately in need of some Advil before anything else. But you don’t quite make it to the medicine cabinet because there’s someone standing at your kitchen counter. Not a stranger, no not by any stretch of the means. Rich is much more than that.

            He’s your best friend, though the raging crush stirring inside of you constantly has you wishing he was more than that. For now, though, he is your best friend. And you’ll take that over him being a stranger to you any day.

            Speaking of Rich, he finally looks up from his laptop, a small smile tugging at his lips when he sees you. “Nice of you to join the conscious world.”

            Normally, you would laugh. Because that sentence is full of snark, the exact kind that is unique to Rich and his entire persona. But this morning you don’t laugh because he has spoken a little too loudly, causing your headache to flare up around your eyes for all of what is probably five seconds, but feels much longer.

            “Oh, god. You’re a dick.”

            “That’s what they call me.”

            You almost glare at him as you hold onto the counter, planting yourself down in one of the stools on the opposite side of the counter from where he’s standing. He has returned his focus to his laptop, staring at it a little too intensely for ten in the morning.

            You shrug it off, reminding yourself that from past experiences, you probably _don’t_ want to know what he is looking at.

            “How bad was I last night?” You ask, resting your head in your hands and probably furthering the mess that is your hair, but there isn’t an ounce of strength in you to totally care about your appearance right now. Perks of being best friends.

            Rich laughs suddenly, like he remembered some absolutely hilarious joke he was told and just now fully understood it. “You called me ‘really, really pretty’ about fifteen times. While making kissy faces.” Of course, Rich being Rich, this memory prompts him to being mocking your drunk self by making the most annoying kissy face and kissy noises he can possibly think of.

            “Oh great. Did I try to kiss you, too?” You tease, but only halfway. If drunk-you got to kiss Rich before sober-you, then drunk-you is going to get her ass kicked.

            He shakes his head then. “You tried, for a second. But then you wanted cake, so the fridge was your new ‘really, really pretty’ best friend.”

            You let out a silent breath, looking up at him to catch his grin. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

            “It’s going with you to your grave, sister,” he quirks, pointing an accusing finger at you as a little laugh bubbles from his chest. Then, remembering something serious this time, he lowers his hand to the counter and furrows his eyebrows. “I left Advil and water by the bed for you. Did you not see it?” He pauses, smirking. “Or did you come out here to tell me how _really, really pretty_ I am?”

            “As I said, you’re a dick,” you reply, sliding off the stool. You walk around the counter, nudging his shoulder. “But thank you. For the Advil I overlooked and for putting up with me.”

            He gathers you in his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to thank me.” He pauses, moving back so he can look into your eyes. “But for the record, you’re welcome. You’re a handful.”

            You roll your eyes at his teasing, biting back a smile. You go to make a remark in return, but then your eyes fall on the array of ingredients on your kitchen counter. Everything from flour, cocoa powder, sugar, vanilla extract – the works.

            “Planning a bake sale?”

            He glances at the ingredients, almost like he had forgotten they were there, before – are you seeing things? – his cheeks turn a light shade of red. “No, not exactly, you just— You cried in my arms for an hour when you realized you didn’t have any cake. I was going to make you one.”

            Despite the pounding in your skull, you feel warmth spread through your chest. Something you would genuinely never get used to is how much of a great guy Rich is. Not great because he thinks he has to, but great because he _wants_ to be. That’s hard to find and there’s not a day that goes by where you don’t consider yourself lucky to know him.

            “I don’t have any eggs,” you blurt, suddenly realizing you’ve been looking at him fondly for a little too long. “Or milk,” you add quietly. Now you’re the one who’s blushing and fumbling over their words.

            He nods. “I noticed.”

            You nod in return, glancing around the kitchen before the implication behind his words hit you. “Oh, I’m dumb. Yeah. Get dressed and we can go to the store.”

            He raises an eyebrow, dramatically glancing you over (which still makes the blush on your cheeks darker) before looking down at himself.

            “Right,” you breathe, chuckling. “I’ll go get dressed.”

            “There we go,” he laughs. And you know what’s coming next before it even leaves his mouth. “For what it’s worth, you look really, really pretty this morning.”

            You give him the finger on your way back down the hallway.


	2. rich!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grocery shopping with Rich is...interesting.

Going grocery shopping with Rich is not near as easy as you were expecting it to be. You’ve never been grocery shopping with him before, but there is a first for everything. Especially since he wants to bake a cake at your house when you’re not only lacking essentials to make a cake, but also the essentials to function in your household.

            That’s what he says. He’s dramatic. _Sue me_ , you think, _I’m out of bread, milk, and eggs (and maybe a few other things), but I’ve been without more_.

            But still, Rich takes it upon himself to start making a list while you’re getting dressed and ready for the day. So by the time you’re at the store, he has a list a mile long.

            And he’s a five-year-old child when he’s in a grocery store.

            You could only wish you were exaggerating.

            “Rich, no,” you scold, shaking your head. You grab the cart out of his hands before he can finish what he was about to do.

            “Come on!” He whines. “You’ve never sat in one?”

            You scoff. “Maybe when I was a toddler.”

            Before you can even think another thought, you feel arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you up. Aside from the involuntary squeal that leaves your lips, you’re unharmed.

            But now you’re sitting in a cart. In the middle of a store.

            “Rich!” You hiss, smacking his arm as he begins pushing the cart down an aisle. “What are you doing?”

            “Grocery shopping,” he replies simply. “What’s on the list?”

            And from there he gives you no room to protest. You accept defeat, keeping your butt in the cart as the two of you venture around the grocery store. A few people give you weird looks that almost always dissolve into laughter, and when Rich can sense your anxiety beginning to creep in, he mentions a random food item. Sometimes something you need, other times it’s something so obscure that you have no choice but to ask him what the hell he just said.

            Rich is good at distracting you from your anxiety. He says that from personal experience and knowing someone as neurotic as Rob, he’s picked up a few tricks on how to handle anxiety.

            He does a fine job, if you do say so yourself. Whenever you’re with him, it’s not hard to let go and be yourself. The anxiety in you almost always melts away in his presence, something else you’ll be thankful for until the ends of the earth.

            Slowly but surely, the groceries pile up around you in the cart. You’ve got cereal boxes propped up behind you, a loaf of bread sitting in your lap, a bag of apples next to your feet, and on and on. Oh, not the mention the cold gallon of milk that you swear Rich put down next to your bare leg on purpose. Fucker.

            You ask – politely, must you add – if he will help you out of the cart before you go to the register, but he ignores you and heads to the frozen section to get ice cream. And then makes a B-line to the registers without giving you a chance to ask again.

            To distract you again, he holds up a bag of Lays to his face, the kind that has the smile on front of it. You wouldn’t have laughed as hard as you did if he hadn’t completely caught you off guard doing it. One second he’s adjusting his glasses, the next he’s crossing his eyes with a wide grin off a Lays bag against his face.

            The cashier catches this little moment, laughing quietly to herself.

            As you’re placing groceries on the counter, the cashier makes idle chat with the two of you. And one of the first thing she says is that her husband used to do this same thing to her, make her go grocery shopping with him from the shopping cart.

            “How long have you two been together?” She asks, the question casually rolling off of her tongue.

            “Oh—” You go to correct her, but don’t get the chance to.

            “Right around two years,” Rich answers, smiling at you fondly.

            There are no words to describe the number of butterflies swarming in your stomach at this moment. You smile back, trying to hide how flustered you are by searching for your debit card. Rich doesn’t argue with you, thankfully, and swipes your card for you, entering your pin number as well before handing it back to you.

            He begins loading the bags into the cart, placing them perfectly all around you. Once the last bags are sitting around you or in your lap, he pushes the cart out of the store and back to his car.

            You hand him bags as he loads them into the back of his car, but mostly you’re ready to get out of this cart.

            It never occurs to you why the cashier’s comment – and Rich’s reply – doesn’t hang heavy around the two of you. That is the first time you’ve been mistaken for a couple in public and the first time Rich has run with it, but nothing is awkward. If anything, you’re terribly giggly about the whole ordeal.

            “Alright, I guess you can get out now,” he teases, holding his arms out to you.

            You steady yourself against his shoulders, trying your best to stand up in the cart without it getting away from you. It still does, causing you to literally fall into Rich’s chest. You lean your forehead against his shoulder, your hands pressed against his chest as you both laugh.

            “You okay?”

            You lift your head to look at him, nodding. “Yeah,” you chuckle. You hate your eyes in that moment for glancing down at his lips.

            But in your defense, he looked at yours first.

            “We should probably get these groceries home.”

            You nod, stepping back from him then. “Yeah, yes. We should.”

            He lets out what you swear is one of his nervous laughs before saying he’s going to walk the cart back to the store. You distantly hear yourself reply to him.

            You climb into the passenger seat of his car, leaning your head back against the seat. These days were always the hardest. The days when your feelings for Rich seemed relentless.

            He’s your best friend. It’s the typical “I don’t want to ruin what we have” argument, only part of you doesn’t think that would happen. Part of you really believes nothing could come between the two of you. But then again, your feelings for him do cause you to overexaggerate and see things that might not really be true.

            Like when he blatantly glanced at your lips. It was most likely unintentional.

            But god, you really wanted to kiss him.


	3. no more joking around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! Thank you to all of you for your kind words and feedback on this story. It's so cute and fun to write, and it makes me happy to see so many of you enjoying it too. Here's more!

This isn’t the first time Rich has helped you go grocery shopping. It is, however, the first time you have gotten a full list of things. The few times before having just been when you ran out of something while he was over, but never a full-blown list.

            Despite this, the two of you are able to put up groceries like a true team. Granted, he is over a lot, so he knows where everything goes. He knows you like your eggs on the second shelf, your butter right next to them. He doesn’t have to ask where you like the coffee creamer – on the door, next to the orange juice – and he doesn’t have to ask where you keep your bread – on the counter, by the toaster, but on the side away from the sink.

            It takes less than fifteen minutes to finish and by the time you do, you’ve both worked up an appetite.

            You should make lunch. A proper lunch. But one glance between the both of you is all you need to start bringing ingredients out to make that chocolate cake you’ve both been craving since this morning – well, you since last night, technically.

            “You’re wearing an apron,” you insist, shoving one into his chest.

            “Why?”

            “Because,” you tie yours behind your back. “It’s cute.”

            He chuckles, not bothering to argue with you as he ties his behind his back, holding out his arms as if to say, “Are you happy now?” Your response is a wide grin that he can’t help but return.

            One hour and a cloud of flour later, the cake is in the oven baking while you clean up the kitchen. After you wipe the counter with a damp washcloth, you hang it over the sink to dry. As you turn back around, Rich is too busy chuckling to explain what he’s seeing.

            “I have flour all over me, don’t I?” You laugh. “It’s your fault. You don’t know how to measure flour.” You shake your head. “I have so much to teach you.”

            He grins then. “I wouldn’t mind doing this again.”

            “I know you wouldn’t,” you smirk. “Seriously, do I have flour on my face?”

            “Nope,” he shakes his head, reaching forward and swiping his thumb across your cheek. “Fudge.” He shows you his thumb which has a small smear of chocolate on it. He wipes it on his apron after an awkward moment of staring at each other.

            You clear your throat, wiping your hands on your apron before glancing at the oven. It still has thirty minutes to cook. “I’m gonna go sit in the living room while it cooks.”

            “Okay,” he nods, lifting his apron over his head.

            You try not to think too much as you settle onto your couch. Rich comes and sits right next to you, despite the rest of the couch being vacant – but he always does this, so this isn’t new.

            You have to stop from scolding yourself out loud. It was a simple remark, and probably a knee-jerk reaction on Rich’s part, back in the grocery store. It’s not something you should be thinking so hard about.

            You turned the TV on, but it’s only background noise compared to your racing thoughts. Rich seems focused on the screen, but you can tell he’s trying hard to sit still.

            He settles down after lifting his arm over the back of the couch, his fingertips grazing your shoulder. This isn’t new. You lean into his side, bringing your legs up on the cushion next to you. This isn’t new, either. But your heart is still racing like it is.

            It’s killing you. And you’re positive he can tell.

            Rich is one of the few people that when something is bothering you – he knows. Even if you don’t know or aren’t consciously aware that something is bothering you – he knows. He always knows.

            There was one time when you were going through a particularly dark few days, and Rich was the one who came to your house, even though you had said you didn’t want anyone over. He didn’t care. He had a key to your place, so he came over. He quietly cleaned up, putting dishes away and doing laundry while you slept on the couch. And since then, you’ve never been able to keep anything from him.

            So, of course, he notices your demeanor this time around.

            “You okay?”

            “Yeah,” you answer, probably (definitely) a little too quickly.

            He turns his head, raising his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” you try, but – and this happens every time – when he gives you another look, the gates open. “Just— At the grocery store, with the cashier, you just went with it. When she asked if we were together.”

            His face morphs into one of confusion. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset. I was just trying to joke a little bit.”

            “So it was a joke?”

            He shrugs. “Yeah.”

            A joke.

            _See_ , you think, _this is why you shouldn’t think too hard on things._

            But you can’t help it.

            “Hey Rich?”

            He smiles. “What is it?”

            “What if I don’t want it to be a joke?” You blurt, the words almost sounding different, like they didn’t come from your mouth.

            He stares at you for a moment, blinking. “You don’t?”

            You’re in this far, so you decide to continue. “I don’t.” You wait, searching his eyes for anything negative, but you can’t find anything. “But if you don’t feel the same, it’s fine. We can just forget this conversation happened, you know.”

            All he does is smile, dropping his arm to rest around your shoulders, pulling you into him. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, still wanting a real answer from him, so you keep your distance, not fully leaning on his chest.

            “I don’t want it to be a joke either,” he murmurs finally.

            “That was a delayed reaction.”

            “Just trying to process,” he admits. “I’ve felt this way for a while.”

            “Really?” Your eyes go wide. “How long?”

            He shrugs. “Since I met you.”

            Your heart feels like it wants to burst out of your chest. “Me too.”

            You rest your hand on his chest, letting yourself get closer as you usually do. He continues looking at you, that same look of shock, almost, mixed with his soft smile. It goes on long enough that you have to ask him what it’s all about.

            But he just shakes his head. “You’re just _really, really pretty_ ,” he teases, but you hear the sincerity behind his words.

            “Still not over it, huh?”

            “No,” he shakes his head, his eyes wandering.

            Again, in your defense, he looked first.

            But there’s no need to defend. There’s no defenses left between the two of you, and it shows when he presses his lips against yours.

            You smile in a daze when you pull back, just barely enough to talk. “You should’ve done that sooner.”

            “I know,” he admits, kissing you again. “I’ll make up for it.”


End file.
